Content
by whitelilly
Summary: Sometimes John feels like he doesn't know Sherlock Holmes at all. Sequal to Favourite Addiction


Memories

Sometimes John feels like he doesn't know Sherlock Holmes at all. Moments when he see's a cloudy mist move over the detectives eyes as he peers at something completely umremarkable.

The first time he noticed this was when they where food shopping, for once Holmes had decided he wanted to accompany the older man in order to ensure he got the right coffee (apparently Tesco own brand wasn't good enough for the great Sherlock Holmes).

What had set it off John wasn't sure, but Sherlock had clearly seen something that disgruntled him and caused him to want to get home as soon as humanely possible.

That night Sherlock clung to him like he was a life raft saving him from the billowing, vicious waves of his mind. It was like he had changed completely from the smirking, know it all detective John was used to.

The change, however, was short lived and the next morning he was back to normal.

The second time he noticed it Sherlock was arguing with Anderson (although that in itself was nothing out of the ordinary).

It had started off as a normal argument for the pair, throwing insults and trying to out do each other where ever possible.

usually, John would watch from the side lines as voices got louder and faces redder. Then Sherlock would spit out some overly complicated statement and strut away like he'd won the lottery.

But this time was different and all because Anderson had made on simple statement...

_How long until he goes down the same road as Hope?_

And that was it, Sherlocks eyes clouded over again and his fist met Andersons face with a fierce crack.

Well, John couldn't simply stand and watch now. After dragging the detective off the bruised officer he found himself being pulled forcefully across London.  
It was like the detective had lost his mind, completely and utterly lost it.

Because, after all, Sherlock was a little... strange at the best of times.

Sometimes, John didn't feel like he knew the detective at all.

Thoughts

John often finds that his thoughts are his own worst enemy. After all, it's his thoughts that are constantly niggling away, asking him questions he just cant answer.

Whose Hope?

John cant help but wonder. He's trained himself to ignore things about Sherlock that don't concern him.

Like Why doesn't he talk to his father? Why does he get that look? Why is there a head in the freezer?

But the fact Anderson spoke about her in the same context as John makes him a little uneasy, almost jealous...

_Hope..._

Its clearly a womans name and the fact makes Johns stomach churn and gurgle. Because John isn't a woman...

_Clearly..._

What if this Hope was to Sherlock what John is to him now? Is this what the detective does? Get stupid, normal people to join him in some room mate type situation before turning on the charms?

John peers around the room and sighs. Because he now knows his knowledge of Sherlock is minimal, almost non existent. Sherlock knows everything about him, names, dates, places, people.

And yet here he is sat in an empty apartment, not even knowing where Holmes is, half expecting for the detective to burst in any second carrying some stolen evidence or mutilated body.

John closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. He knows what he's going to do, he just wants to double check with his mind that it's actually planning on doing this.

But now his feet are moving and before he knows it he's outside Sherlocks bedroom door.

Its _creaks_ as he pushes.

Because every time you want something to be quiet its as loud as bloody possible...

He's rummaging and... _shit_... his hands are shaking and his hearts beating like he's run a marathon. The doctors hands are grasping at Sherlocks possessions, old watches and crumpled news paper clippings are covering the faded carpet and John groans because ALL he wants to know is something, anything, about the man he's living with.

He doesn't even know his age for Christ sake!

Suddenly his hands brush something smooth and John knows all to well he's in far to deep.

_Its a photograph._

John knows for a fact Sherlock doesn't do pictures, the only photo he's ever seen in the flat is the one of Harry and himself he placed on the mantel piece next to the skull.

John doesn't want to turn it over because he doesn't know what he may see, but he wants to know.

_After all isn't that the reason he's currently breaking and entering?_

So he breathes in and out and plucks up all the courage he can (was he this nervous in the war? He cant remember). His shaking fingers turn it over and his eyes widen.

Because smiling back at him is Sherlock, a large grin plastered on his face and his arm around a young girl (most likely nineteen or so). She's tall, he can tell because her heads resting on the detective shoulder. Long dark hair and large dark eyes that John can only describe as gorgeous adorn her face like some sort of painting.

He frowns and wants to scream. This is her, his gut tells him so. This is Hope. And she may be the most beautiful girl he's ever seen.

The fact makes John want to throw up.

Distant

Sherlock knows John has seen the only photo he has. It's slightly more to the left then usual and the sight makes him sigh. Although he's extremely pissed off that John took it upon himself to play detective he quickly pushes the anger to one side and thinks.

He doesn't want to talk about it.

It makes him want to walk downstairs, stare the Doctor in the face and kindly tell him to mind his own business. But it's beyond that now and Sherlock has the sensation of drowning.

His throat is tight and his eyes pained because he vowed never to talk about her with John. He knows the doctor better then he's ever known anyone, its beyond simple deduction now and the thought makes Sherlock shudder.

He doesn't like it.

He knows that John wonders, wonders who he is really but the detective has tried to ignore the constant glances and carefully placed questions..

Now the situations changed and he can no longer watch as John drives himself crazy with his own thoughts and contemplation.

Its all come to down to this.

All the months of not speaking about her, hiding all he has left in a draw filled with brick 'a' brack. It would appear it was in vain. Sherlock sighs and closes the draw, placing the photo in his coat pocket and heading down stairs.

If John wants to know about Hope he'll tell her.

Then perhaps the doctor will look him in the eye like he used to.

Bells

John awakes on a cold Sunday morning to the sound of Sherlock yelling his name from outside his room. The doctor groans and pulls his pillow over his face hoping the detective will take the hint and leave him be to wallow in self loathing. But when does Sherlock ever leave anything?

And before he knows it he's half asleep in the back of a Taxi heading out of London and into more village like scenes.

He hasn't said a word because Sherlock has a look in the eye that says one thing.

Don't talk to me John, just keep silent and it will be okay.

He's so close to questioning the other man now and the fact they are pulling up outside an old crumbling church makes his mind buzz even more. He watches as Sherlock pays the driver and gets out.

John joins him in the old winter day, watching as people walk towards the building for Sunday morning service.

The bells rings through the air, cutting it like a sharp knife.

John wants to run away.

He's never liked churches...

But now Sherlocks walking through the gates into the icy grass that covers the ground. John peers around and soon realizes they where headed.

The grave yard.

Now he really does want to run, because this has gone to far.

He needs to know...

_Where are you taking me?_

But no questions are asked and no answers are given, isn't that what their relationship was? Confusions that made John want to smack his head against the nearest hard surface?

They walk past the head stones, icicles crunching under Watsons feet and his breath coming out in wistful clouds.

And then they stopped and there she was.

Hope...

_Hope Holmes_

_1990-2009_

Sherlock peers at him with a blank face, as if bird watching and awaiting Johns next move. When nothing is spoken for several minutes Sherlock sighs and pulls the photo out of his pocket once more, handing it to the doctor with a small smile.

He smiles at John.

He smiles at the thought of her.

Because she was his sister and she died pushing him out of the way of a speeding bullet.

And suddenly it all makes sense to John, because Sherlock doesn't talk to his father and he doesn't have a good relationship with any of his other siblings.

Sherlock peers at the grave before turning and walking back to the taxi.

John watches him for a second before running to catch him up and, after taking a large breath to gain some nerves, takes the detectives hand in his own.

It was a gesture of affection, but it was also a gesture of appreciation.

Thank you.

Because just that small section of his life that Sherlock has shared is all John needs to realize that he isn't just another person Sherlocks charmed.

He's the only one.

Fin

The photo isn't hidden away now, John insisted upon it. Its framed and stands proudly next to the one of Harry and the doctor on the mantel piece.

Sherlock wont admit it but it makes him happy. When ever he walks into the living room it takes him by surprise. After a year of not seeing her face she is, yet again, a constant in his life and that alone is heart warming.

And although Sherlock hates thinking about it...

BANG. PUSH. BLOOD.

He knows that it isn't about Hopes death anymore, it's about her life. The way she'd laugh at Sherlock when he got that intrigued look on his face, the way she'd jump on his back like a toddler and ruffle his hair in that way he hated.

He doesn't worry any more now. When ever he thinks about her in pain he simply looks at her smiling face and grins back.

And now when he crawls into bed with John, tired from a hard days work, he doesn't lie awake now picturing the scene over and over again.

He simply pulls the other man close to him in silence and rests his chin on his head.

Because words don't matter to them, its actions.

They do say actions speak louder then words.

Now Sherlock thinks about it he doesn't need his family. And they clearly don't need him.

As long as he has John he'll be fine.

Thats how Hope would have wanted it.

It was like she always said...

Do what makes you happy and fuck the rest!

He smiles at the memory as Johns breathing becomes calmed and even.

Yes, as long as he has this it will be fine.

As long this was his life from now on he'll be content.

* * *

A/N

Well, here you go guys! Another series of drabbles :)

Slightly more depressing then usual even though they arent ever super happy are they XD

If you guys want I can do a oneshot of the day Hope died? But only if you guys want ;)

SO! Please review :) they make me VERY happy ^_^

lots of love White Lilly


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